


A Suitable Name

by keiliss



Series: Gifties: Christmas 2016 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Naming things, curious Maiar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9073273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: Tal asked for: Balar, Gil-galad and Ossë. It isn't necessary that anything actually happens. :)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Talullah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/gifts).



> I offered to write Christmas gifts and this is the first. Yes, yes, it's after Christmas. They were due on Christmas Day but most grew way past their expected (under 700 word) size so one a day till Twelfth Night works better. 
> 
> Not one thing has turned out as planned this year, why would I expect this to? *g*

The afternoon sunlight glinted off the fair hair of the elf child picking his way carefully along the strip of pebble and shale. Balar had claimed this beach back from the sea and they had been fighting over it ever since. It was near the fishing harbour – the smell carried – and was reached down a steep path and over a few strips of rock. It was not generally popular except for those who liked collecting shells and pretty stones.

The boy, whose name was Rodnor Gil-galad, liked stones and shells and had collections all over his room. He was forced to keep everything neat and tidy but he quite liked the challenge of finding ways to set things out that would have his care givers shrug indulgently and let them be. He should have been sitting through one of his foster father’s lessons on Ethics that afternoon, but Círdan, lord of Balar and whatever remained of the coastal settlements of the Falathrim, had visitors from the mainland. This had left him unexpectedly free and he was making the most of it.

He could have gone down to the training area and got in some practice with the blunted sword he was learning on, of course. Gildor said you could never learn enough clever tricks, never be too fast or too agile, but one afternoon would hardly count. He liked Gildor – they were cousins in a way that hurt his head when he had to count back along their family lines, and he wasn’t stuffy and serious like most adults – but he was almost annoyingly determined that Gil should keep honing warrior skills. He said this was the only way Noldor princes survived to adulthood these days. It hadn’t worked too well for the last king – another relative - but neither of them said anything about that.

‘Beach’ was an exaggeration for this stony stretch along the shoreline, no more than a narrow crescent, strewn with seaweed during this brief low tide interval, but the pretty, sandy one that had given Pearly Bay its name was further away, plus there might be people to wonder what he was doing there in the middle of the day. People on Balar worked hard, they did not waste daylight on frivolity. They were a small, isolated settlement with no great cities further up the coast to rely upon for anything now. There had been no help from there since the Enemy’s forces overran so much after the death of the High King in battle. 

Of course there was another High King, Gil-galad thought as he picked his way along, eyes alert for good shells or well-shaped pebbles, but Turgon, another several-times removed cousin, had taken his people into hiding in some safe hidden city, said to rival great Tirion itself for beauty, and was at best an absentee leader. Gil-galad felt it was like having no king at all, just a pretty story no one needed to take seriously, but that was another of those things it was best not to say out loud.

He was making his slow way towards the rocks at the end of the beach. He liked to climb up there occasionally and sit out lessons – he was not fond of things like history because he suspected most of it was no more than the version of events certain people wanted you to believe. A little personal time was always welcome and usually in short supply and the view over the sea and along the bay was pleasant from up there. 

He had just begun the short climb to the top of the outcrop - he was an agile child and went up it easily - when he noticed something strange about the sea. The waves came in and drew back as ever in the normal pattern, but there was a little vortex in the centre, just near the rocks, as though the water met some kind of resistance, though he could see there was nothing there. 

Frowning, he jumped back down onto the beach and strode to the water’s edge. Wavelets came in, frothing round his ankles while he stood looking at the phenomenon. The beach was completely deserted, which was why he had picked it, except for the gulls, a raucous bunch who had learned to associate people with food and came out of nowhere when they found one in what they probably saw as their territory. After a minute or two he started wading out towards the place where the sea tossed and curved, only to stop when the space in the middle of the vortex went opaque, a core of stillness within eternal movement.

Gil-galad, who had a cat’s curiosity along with a healthy dose of common sense, stopped where he was and waited.

There was no transition. One moment the sea was going about its business, the next a man was standing waist deep in the water, looking at him. He was tall, broad shouldered, with heavily muscled arms and chest. Muscle also literally rippled from ribcage to waist. He had long dark hair, almost curly, wore a necklace of shells round his neck and not much else. 

They stared at each other. Gil-galad should perhaps have been afraid but he knew that nothing bad could happen on Balar, the Shore Lord would never tolerate such a thing. The man was making no threatening move plus Gil was very aware this was no ordinary man. From the strange way he had appeared to the way Gil’s skin prickled with his own version of foreknowledge, he knew this had to be one of the Shining Ones, as his nurse called them. 

His money, if he’d had any, which he didn’t, would be on the Maia called Ossë.

The Maia finally nodded as though something had been confirmed. “Yellow hair?” he asked empty space beside him. “About waist high?” His voice rumbled pleasantly. 

The water next to him suddenly bubbled and foamed. Gil-galad took a step back, just in case, but needn’t have. A head appeared, with long, trailing hair like palest seafoam, followed by equally pale shoulders. The rest of her remained beneath the surface. Strange, shadowy eyes studied him. “That one, yes. They all have yellow hair, the third son’s line.” She had a strange, whispery little voice that still carried over the sounds of the ocean. “The last Noldor prince.”

His Aunt Lalwen wouldn’t have liked that. “I beg your pardon,” he said carefully, not sure how you addressed such beings. “But my cousin Gildor is a prince of the Noldor and far older than I am.” Gildor had been born beyond the sea and was a grown man when he crossed the Helcaraxë. 

“He is not the son of a son,” the Maia said, as though this explained it all. “And the fate of the elves will not rest with him. Come here where I can see you, young one.”

Gil-galad considered the distance between them and decided to play it safe. “The water’s deep there, my lord?” he said. “I’d have to swim and my clothes would get wet and I would be in trouble when I got home.”

Ossë, it had to be Ossë - and then the woman would be Uinen - grunted and strode through the water till it reached to his knees. He was not naked as Gil-galad had suspected, but wore a loin cloth of some shimmery fabric that Aunt Galadriel would probably have loved. Uinen came with him and sat at his feet, her pale hair spreading out around her. She was humming to herself.

“So, almost high enough to heft a sword, yes?” Ossë said after a bit.

Gil-galad frowned. “I’ve been training with the sword for a couple of years already,” he said. “Blunted metal now, not wooden.”

“They start them early now,” Ossë grumbled. “Fight young, die young. See they train you well. The shore people are not great fighters.”

“They’re good enough,” Gil-galad said quickly. “They raid up and down the coast so the enemy never has time to settle into the villages they overrun. When I’m a bit older I’ll start going out with them, but – not yet.”

The Maiar seemed to be assessing him. “He stands chest high to you now, husband,” Uinen said. “Shoulder height is fighting size. I see them up and down the shore, along the river’s edge. It is always the same.”

“Are you Ossë?” Gil-galad cut in. He should have been afraid but somehow they weren’t particularly frightening. He thought he might have felt less confident had Uinen not been there, but she was funny and small and made him feel safe.

“Ossë I am, herald of the Sea Lord himself, and Uinen is my wife,” the Maia said. “And you are forward, young thing. Where is the awe that is my due?”

“My lord, they say you are a friend to my people?” Gil-galad tried, hoping for the best. He had heard it said a few times, though the most praise came usually for Uinen of the Waters, who calmed the seas at times of need. 

“This could be so,” Ossë said. He was still staring, as though trying to make up his mind about what he saw. “In truth we mean you no harm. I had a wish to take a look at you before you come into your own.”

“Shhhhh!” Uinen said. 

Ossë gave her an annoyed look. “I will not be hushed like a water sprite,” he snapped. “How do they name you, young thing?”

“Rodnor from my father, my lord. Gil-galad from my mother,” Gil-galad said. It wasn’t usual to give a total stranger one’s mother-name but this was Ossë. 

Ossë made a grumbling noise. “Those are not strong names. Rodnor – what is that? And star’s radiance... pretty but hardly what’s needed.”

“He must have a new name,” Uinen declared, her hair foaming up again. “Something suitable.” She thought for a moment, then the water around her frilled out in ripples, radiating delight. “How about Ereinion?”

“Descendant of kings?” Ossë said. “Hm. Yes. Good, wife. I like that. Clever.”

“Excuse me, my lord, but I have a name,” Gil-galad interrupted. “Two, actually. Three if you consider my friends call me Gil.”

“In a few sun turns you will need a new name,” Ossë said, and a wave crashed up against him as though to punctuate this. “Ereinion. It will be useful.”

“Why would I need a new name?” Gil-galad asked, confused. 

He distinctly saw Uinen reach up and tap her husband’s leg and Ossë scowl at her. “Because you will,” he said. “It is not for you to question us.”

“You will understand. In time,” Uinen told him in her strange, whispery voice. “Won’t he, husband?”

Ossë nodded, stroking the water around him, clearly preparing to leave. “In time,” he said. “Yes. Ereinion. Scion of kings. Remember it, so that others do not forget.” 

They left as they had come, there and then gone. Like a door closing. Gil-galad stood in the shallows for a while staring at the place where they had been till something nudged his ankle. He looked down and saw a shell unlike any he had seen around the island, pink and white with delicate spines. He picked it up and turned it over. It was complete, not a single crack, no damage to any of the spines. He backed slowly out of the water and onto the beach. Only then did he think to say quietly but clearly, “Thank you, Lady.” 

Ossë did not strike him as the type to give casual gifts.

He told no one about his experience. He had very few secrets and like most boys found a special pleasure in having something that was purely his own. Anyhow, he wasn’t sure even Círdan, who had spoken with great Ulmo, would believe him. He went to the little beach every so often, but they did not return and the mystery of the name sat waiting its time. When it came, in the form of Turgon’s seal ring in the hands of an exhausted mortal with hair as fair as his own, he finally understood.

Ereinion, Scion of kings. A name fit for the next High King.


End file.
